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It is one of life's sweetest moments — the first time you see your eager lover unclothed (finally!), lips parted, limbs loose, and everything about their body communicating not only ardent desire, but supreme confidence in you. Ah, the thrill of that first, fresh moment of surrender and consummation! It does not last, cannot last, and so much of what follows seems like a search for a facsimile of it. Inevitably, we crave different and exciting. And — speaking as a forty-seven-year-old, heterosexual male — as regards a woman's anatomy, something different and exciting is located tantalizingly close to the same old-same old. Seriously, you can't miss it.

Certainly, there is a vast divide between fucking and ass-fucking, one that is physical, emotional, and philosophical. (I never like it when sex writers use words like "philosophical," but when writing about bum-fucking, "philosophical" is as inescapable as "ouch.") So as not to get too heady, let's recall Freud's famous remark that "sometimes a cigar is just a cigar." But not if someone sticks it in your ass.

A couple can have sex a hundred times, yet if a bum fuck is their one-hundred-and-first go at it, their affair has taken a philosophical detour that might mark the end of the beginning or the beginning of the end. That first bum fuck is like a game-show dilemma: will you keep what you've won so far, or would you like to take a chance on what's behind the curtain? It might be something good. It might be something. . . unfortunate.

For me, the only time the act seems imperative is in the early stages of an intense, sexual relationship. The impulse is more territorial than amorous: "I want you every last way I can have you. Everything about you must be mine." But once I've established my territorial claim, my attitude is, "Okay, that's mine — but can you just hold on to it for me?" Sometimes lovers have wanted regular ass-fucking, and while I'm nothing if not a sport, I start to feel remote and excluded from the riot of emotion and sensation of which I'm an integral part. It's like the Bob Dylan song: "There's something going on here and you don't know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?"

On the other hand, Mr. Jones could find out what's going on, were he feeling motivated. I dated a woman I'll call Peg. At first I wasn't sure if she and I would click. She seemed very straight-laced, a refined child of privilege educated at elite schools, and socially well-connected in New York as well.

In truth, she was straight-laced, in all but the bum-fucking parts of life. We'd been dating for a little more than a month when, in the middle of one of the rough, energetic fucks we enjoyed, she told me she wanted me to fuck her ass and fuck it hard.

Like I said earlier, a request of this kind marks a philosophical detour for a couple. But Peg was prepared. She reached over to her night table and took out a canvas bag of mystery. I heard the clacking of plastic against plastic as she extracted her container of Astroglide lubricant and a condom. I've always liked the name Astroglide — it sounds like the new and improved formula for Space Age whoop-de-do. K-Y Jelly, while it may do the trick, is also the stuff they use on rectal thermometers at the nursing home. Barbarella uses Astroglide. For all I know, Astroglide is K-Y re-branded for a bum-fucking clientele. Nonetheless, Peg's use of the product signaled that she was a sophisticate. She squeezed some on my cock.

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